


Faintly Amused (But Seriously Bewildered)

by PC_Hopkins (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, Mild Language, Misunderstanding, Romance, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/PC_Hopkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is flustered. Lestrade is clueless. Hilarity does not ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snatching Defeat from the Jaws of Victory

Lestrade had the most wonderfully brown eyes he'd ever seen. It was an insipid thought, but true, as Mycroft spent a good deal of his time looking into people's eyes. This was often done while saying, "I assure you, you do not wish to do that," or, "Consider my suggestion carefully, if you enjoy your current career,” and not usually in the romantic manner that he was engaged in currently. Romantic. He felt nauseous. This was not a good idea, he reminded himself; this was actually a very stupid, selfish, maudlin idea, one that he should desist in pursuing right now if he wanted to retain any semblance of... of anything. Something. Control, yes, that was it. If he wanted to retain control over... Over his life, yes, he would have to desist in arranging these little meetings.

They were extremely chocolaty, reminding him unfortunately of both his diet and the list of reasons why it was a very, very bad idea to continue on this path with Gre— the Detective Inspector. (No. 1: He had just split up with his wife of many years, any relationship now would be for rebound sex, which was decidedly not what Mycroft wanted.) This was not even what anyone would term a 'date.' It was coffee – strong, disgusting, reminded him never again to drink coffee, now he was distracting himself from the issue with _coffee_ – and a chat (well, more of a one-sided rant by Lestrade, while Mycroft sat there making vaguely affirmative noises and choking down this mud pretending to be coffee.) It was about Sherlock, of all the possible subjects in the world. If that wasn't the most unerotic – _unerotic isn't even a word, you blithering idiot_ – topic they could be discussing, he didn't know what was.

He couldn't stop noticing the way Lestrade's chocolate eyes glittered. (No. 2: He was quite remarkably attractive and Mycroft was quite remarkably not. Why would Lestrade even be interested in him? Logical conclusion: he wasn't.) His thought processes were becoming erratic. Christ. And now he was praying to a probably fictitious son of God. _Christ_. Next he would start cursing or something equally as crude. This needed to stop. He needed to make up an excuse about work and get out of this café. He didn't even like cafés; dirty, sordid places that held all sorts of sad little people going about their daily lives, caught in the grind of an unpleasant job. He would go back to the Diogenes and not think about Lestrade or his eyes or the little slanting smile he wore whenever he was happy or the fact his sheets had been laundered yesterday or that the shirt he was wearing was new and fit him quite nicely indeed–

Mycroft very nearly choked on his beverage—this asphyxiation not being due to the poor quality of the coffee, but the fact that Lestrade was sucking on that bizarre stick-thing used to stir the blasted drink. Fucking brown eyes. Fucking, _fucking_ coffee. (No. 3: It was increasingly difficult to stay in control around Greg—Lestrade—the Detective Inspector, very undesirable in Mycroft's line of work and disruptive to his sanity and normally infallible manners.) From the little tilt to Lestrade's head, he deduced that he had just been asked a question. He'd been woolgathering, had missed vital information. F—no, he would not swear, he had better etiquette than some gawky, hormonal teenager.

"Sorry?" he asked, barely holding back a wince, because he was Mycroft Holmes and the last time he had said that word had been when he was ten. For God’s sake, Lestrade was still chewing on that stick in a most obscene manner. (No. 4: Likelihood that a brief interlude with Lestrade would bring about desired end to infatuation: 29%. Ergo, it was better to not get involved than to foolishly grow attached to a man who would probably die in a hail of bullets one day. For that matter, it was likely Mycroft himself would die in equally tragic circumstances one day. No, this would not work out, definitely not.)

"I said, would you like to go back to mine for real coffee? The café’s gonna close soon, and I sort of feel like I've been ranting at you." Yes, he nearly blurted, but he didn't mind, and of course he would love some coffee except he didn’t actually want coffee and going back to Lestrade’s place was possibly the worst possible thing Mycroft could do at this point. No. He should say no, should make up some excuse about work, should have done that ten minutes ago while he had a modicum of self-control left. A slanted smile. Well, he was going to Hell anyway, might as well make it memorable.

"That would be acceptable," he said with a confidence he did not feel. Didn't coffee mean sex? He wasn't quite sure he was ready for that. Actually, no, he was _too_ ready for that: even more terrifying a thought. Should he tell – warn, beg – Lestrade? What if it was just coffee and he was getting his hopes up? (No. 5: Closer proximity to Lestrade resulted in an exponential increase in the amount of thought Mycroft gave situations, leading to the inevitable problem of _over_ -thinking things. Like coffee. Maybe he should have invited him back to his flat, given the expensive and unused Italian ground beans he was sure Lestrade would appreciate and the fact that his bed was most likely larger. Oh God.)

He couldn't quite remember how they got to Lestrade's flat – it involved the man’s silver Mercedes, he thought, or perhaps one of the many black sedans Mycroft utilised. He also hazily remembered being asked several things, and responding affirmatively. It was a nice flat. Small. Three rooms. Clearly owned by a bachelor – mess everywhere, although Lestrade did his best to keep it clean (dishes stacked neatly, books arranged in piles) even though he was barely ever here (thin layer of dust over kitchen table, spider-webs in corners.) Mycroft should have been able to deduce more, but he was distracted by the fact that it was Lestrade's flat with Lestrade in it and he was probably going to get laid at some point hopefully even though it was surely too early for debauched sex. Maybe they should wait. Maybe it was just coffee. Maybe he should run out of the flat as fast as he could.

At Lestrade's suggestion, he ignored the overwhelming instinct that told him to run, far away, and never return, and sat stiffly on the edge of the couch. He didn't even like coffee. It was a god-awful drink, no subtlety at all to the flavour, just one strong punch to the senses, really, truly awful and he was distracting from the issue. Again. He'd run out of reasons why this was a bad idea, aside from the plain and simple fact that it _was._ He'd have to create more. (No. 6: Conflicting schedules. No. 7: Potential for unhappy end to relationship due to strain and character flaws: 71%. Exceedingly high. Ridiculously high. No. 8: His eyes were beautiful. Was that a negative? Mycroft couldn't tell. Yes – no. Maybe. No. 9: Confusion rate increased as proximity to Lestrade increased—oh God he was sitting right there on the couch with that gorgeous smile on his gorgeous face Christ, Christ, _Christ_ he was going to give up this terrible, bad, awful list right now.)

“I have to confess something,” the DI began. Oh good God, was he a serial killer, wouldn’t that be ironic, he really did not want to think about the fact that he was still perfectly interested even if he did turn out to be one. Maybe he was being a little dramatic, and Lestrade was instead confessing to having some sort of bizarre kink like cross-dressing, and good grief now he was imagining Lestrade in a corset. That was not doing good things to his blood pressure, nor his presence of mind. “I really hate coffee.”

Mycroft had to gouge at his own hands with his fingernails, digging them into the palms, to prevent himself from doing something he might regret, such as requesting Gregory’s hand in marriage. It was a ludicrous idea, even if he had only entertained it for exactly a thirtieth of a second. It had only been their two-hundred-and-fourty-fifth meeting, after all, over a period spanning eight years, seven months, and seventy-three days. Far too fast a leap in their current relations. Perhaps in another decade he would re-evaluate the situation, but for now he would be content with working out, in no particular order: 1. Any ulterior motives Lestrade may have had inviting him back to the flat, 2. Any ulterior motives he may have had accepting the invitation, 3. Where his own, sudden proclivity for corsets had come from and, 4. Why one part of his brain seemed to be fixated on copulating—engaging in intimate relations with Lestrade—Gregory— _fuck_ , on his kitchen counter, or, oh dear was that the door to his bedroom, yes it appeared so. His reason fled as soon as it had returned. Thankfully the entire process had taken under two seconds, otherwise Gregory might be wondering why he was sitting there staring at his bedroom door and not uttering a syllable, and might have actually come to the correct conclusion.

“I must also confess an inherent dislike for that particular beverage, especially the manner in which they served it at that less than reputable establishment,” he replied concisely. Gregory blinked, for some reason; possibly he had something in his eye.

“Right. So, er, do you want a cuppa and then we can talk about… whatever?”

He was unsure if being offered tea would increase his chances of coitus, but agreed, as a general rule of his was to never refuse tea when the invitation was extended. Except if it were poisoned. He did hope that it wasn’t poisoned; that would put a slight damper on their relationship. 

So they sat there. Drinking tea. Well, Gregory did, at least. Occasionally, he shifted as if moving to speak, but never quite got there. The silence was excruciating; almost worse than listening to rants on his brother. Mycroft was also unsure at what point in the awkward silence he was meant to throw himself at the other man, or – how did it progress in those romance novels? Confess his undying love… perhaps that was stretching too far. Admiration, maybe. Respect? Lust he thought might be too forward, if accurate.

“Erm,” began Gregory eloquently, breaking the suffocating stillness, “so… Mr Holmes… What did you want to, er… you know…” Did the man have some previously unnoticed stutter? That would be even worse than a tendency to offer poisoned tea. Relationships were so difficult, he thought despairingly, and this wasn’t even a proper one yet. How did Sherlock put up with John—actually, no, how did John put up with _Sherlock_? How did all the couples of the world stand each other’s little vices and weaknesses?

This was PG Tips, he was 98% sure, and he stared glumly into the inky depths of his cup. Preferable to coffee, he supposed, but only just. If he fucked Gregory senseless, he could find and destroy all his inferior quality tea and replace it with, at the very least, some Darjeeling. This was an admirable goal, he decided, and resolved to pursue it at the soonest possible opportunity. Which was this very moment.

The man was still stammering through his sentences. “Is he…? I was just wondering if… oh, boll—ah, _ahem_ …” Now he appeared to be coughing. Was this the time for pouncing—er, attack—no, flinging himself on the other man? Maybe the tea _was_ poisoned, which would explain why Lestrade was busy hacking out a lung. He set his down, glad he had only pretended to drink it.

He had envisioned a truly shameful amount of scenarios in which he attempted to exchange bodily fluids via the mouth with Gregory. He did not recall any of them including lunging upon the somewhat understandably confused man, tea spilling everywhere, possibly having accidentally punched Gregory in the jaw, who may have then punched _him_ in the face, and nearly breaking his own nose in the process before staging a tactical retreat. He felt his nose, winced, withdrew his hand and saw blood, and revised the latter outcome to having _actually_ broken his nose. Ah, well, red was a romantic colour, wasn’t it? Perhaps not so much when coming from the human body, but the devil was in the details.

“Oh, God,” Gregory moaned, clutching at his own face, before looking up, seeing Mycroft’s bloody nose and whispering, “Oh, _God_.”

It suddenly occurred to the civil servant section of his brain that profuse apologies might be in order, and, through his broken nose, he started to make them. “Terribly sorry, I appear to have overstepped my bounds. I had presumed on our two-hundred-and-fourtieth meeting that you appeared to be interested in me in a sexual and/or romantic capacity, but, in a rare display, I was clearly misinformed. Shall I let myself out?” he tried to say, but it came out a garbled mess, and Gregory just stared at him, looking more and more concerned. Well, concerned was putting it lightly: he looked a hop, skip and another kiss away from a panic attack. Another kiss. That was a good idea. Except for the fact that Gregory’s mouth was opening and closing soundlessly, making him look rather like some sort of fish. Well, that was what the novels said; Mycroft had not conducted a close study into fish, and could not verify whether or not this comparison held true.

There was blood dripping onto his bespoke shirt, which would stain horribly, he knew, but all he could think about (aside from fish simile and the fact his nose hurt quite a bit) was that he quite desperately wanted to kiss Gregory again. Maybe he could convince the other man to kiss him back… although the wide-eyed look of abject panic he was receiving right now was not particularly promising.

“Oh, God,” Gregory repeated, before cupping his hands over his mouth again. 

“I did not think your vocabulary was so limited,” Mycroft attempted to say. What he actually said sounded vaguely Swedish. Perhaps he had also damaged his thinking faculties in the collision.

Gregory seemed to realise that blood was flowing down Mycroft’s face, despite his best attempts to stop it, and let out a kind of anxious animal noise that was halfway between a grunt and a howl – he didn’t quite know _how_ – before bolting up from the couch. Bother. There went his chance for a second, proper kiss. What a horrid day this was turning out to be. He was very glad his secret service had decided to not join the party and arrest Gregory or something equally as embarrassing, like torturing him. “I’ll just—oh, Christ, your suit—I’ll go and—there are tissues around here somewhere…” He found the tissue box, discovered it was empty, and let loose an impressive string of curses. “Towel! I’ll get a towel, just—wait there.”

They appeared to be having something of a breakdown in communications. He hoped that Lestrade was fluent in sign language. It was probably best to not make that assumption, however, given his current record. He’d write his intentions down; yes, that was a good idea. He found a notepad and a pen on the kitchen counter. No chance for misinterpretation. This could not go wrong.

Gregory returned with the towel, which was unfortunately very white and would also stain awfully. He shoved it at Mycroft with another panicked noise that the man did not even try to classify.

‘ _I APOLOGISE FOR MY GREGARIOUS OVERSIGHT. PLEASE ALLOW ME TO ATTEMPT TO RECTIFY MY PREVIOUS MISTAKE AND KISS YOU AGAIN_ ,’ Mycroft wrote, except the pad wasn’t quite big enough for the last four words, so he left them off, deciding it was perfectly understandable anyway. 

He presented it to Lestrade; it was slightly marred with blood, but otherwise readable. Gregory stared at it, stared at him, and then stared at his front door as if he anticipated the secret service to come bursting in at any moment.

“Couldn’t we work this out, Mr Holmes?” he finally asked.

‘ _ARE YOU UNWILLING TO CONTINUE ON IN THE SAME VEIN WE WERE PREVIOUSLY ENGAGED?_ ’

“When you attacked me?”

‘ _ATTACK IS A STRONG WORD. I HAD ATTEMPTED TO ENGAGE IN WHAT I AM ASSURED IS A PLEASING PAST-TIME.’_

“… You attack people for a hobby? Is… you do know I’m a policeman—oh, Christ, you’re the… nevermind... _Jesus_.” Gregory slumped back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, and crumpling the note. Mycroft thought he was being quite melodramatic; it had been a shockingly awful kiss, but surely not so bad as to depress the older man? He felt mildly offended, before the feeling turned into genuine upset.

‘ _WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I HAD ATTEMPTED TO KISS YOU. IT WAS NOT MEANT AS AN ATTACK.’_ New note: ‘ _I AM SORRY YOU FEEL THIS WAY, AND SHALL NOT TRESPASS ON YOUR HOSPITALITY ANY LONGER._ ’ A pause, then he tore off one last note: ‘ _THANK YOU FOR THE TEA.’_ And another final note: ‘ _I APOLOGISE ABOUT THE TOWEL, AND THE COUCH. I KNOW SEVERAL EXCELLENT DRY-CLEANERS. I SHALL HAVE MY ASSISTANT—’ ‘—GIVE YOU THEIR CONTACT DETAILS. I WILL ALSO PROVIDE YOU THE NAME OF A GOOD FAMILY DOCTOR, SHOULD YOU—’ ‘FEEL IN ANY WAY DIZZY, NAUSEOUS, OR LIGHT-HEADED, IN A MANNER THAT IS NOT RELATED—’_ He hesitated over the actual, final, this-is-the-end, last note, quickly jotting down: _‘TO ANY DISGUST OF YOURS AT MY HAVING KISSED YOU.’_

He left them in a pile on the coffee table, Lestrade still not having looked up from his apparent anxiety attack.

“Good day,” he said awkwardly. Still intelligible. This was very undesirable in his current employment. He would have to communicate purely through the written word for as long as it took his vexing beak of a nose to heal. If he had inherited Mummy’s genes, he might be in the middle of shagging Lestrade right now… who was still hyperventilating. Perhaps he should stay, and make sure he did not have a heart attack, or attempt to kill himself, or have some other unfortunate circumstance befall him. Like being abducted by Mycroft’s secret service. (Perhaps he _should_ leave. They were a terribly twitchy lot.) He cleared his throat. Gregory glanced up, still looking like a cornered animal. It was rather disconcerting to think that a mere kiss could have provoked such a reaction in a person he knew to be bisexual but predominately interested in men. (He’d had extensive research done into Lestrade’s preferences—better to be safe than sorry, he’d thought, but it hadn’t quite turned out that way.)

The list he had formed had been correct: he was not a physically desirable man, that much he knew, but now it was apparent he was not an intellectually, emotionally or sexually desirable one, either. Not to Gregory, at least, who was the one that _mattered_. He considered the resultant emotions from this realisation, and bottled them away to be dealt with later, in private, with a bottle of vintage port.

Gregory was picking up the notes. He should be gone.

Mycroft slipped quietly out of the flat, taking the towel with him and dabbing gingerly at his face. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, but his face, shirt and Lestrade’s towel were covered in it. He would clean and have his assistant return the towel once his nose had desisted in bleeding. Fortunately, nobody seemed to be lurking in the building to see him slink out of it, tamping down on his embarrassment. It was still light out, probably around four in the afternoon, given these meetings usually lasted until two-thirty, and this had been extended into a memory he would regret. The black car was idling on the curb, which he simultaneously resented and was thankful for. His assistant lurked within, tapping with less than usual intensity at her BlackBerry. 

“Bad day, sir?” she asked the screen.

 _You have no idea_ , he thought, stepping into the car. Then he relented. She probably had every idea how bad it had been.

“I’ve called the doctor, sir, who informed me that the swelling should recede within three days.” There was silence as they took off, broken only by the soft, ‘ _tap, tap, tap’_ of her phone. He leaned back into the seat, stewing in an icy lack of feeling. Asinine. Sentimental. _Self-indulgent_. “Don’t let it discourage you, sir.”

“Shub ub,” he muttered, touching his nose lightly.

“The doctor also said you should refrain from touching it, sir,” she said smoothly, ignoring his sullen reply. “I would also not suggest drinking alcohol until it has healed. If it would not be overstepping my pay grade, I was wondering in what line of battle you had received such an injury, sir.”

Mycroft gave her a filthy look. His assistant seemed to interpret from it that she _was_ overstepping her pay grade, and fell silent, a slight frown on her glowing face.

“North Korea is getting restless again,” she said after ten minutes. He recognised the attempt to distract him, and considered his answer before responding in sign language. It was certainly a sure way to take his mind off that mortifying incident (if only for a few minutes; it was only North Korea, after all.)

‘ _How are the Americans responding to it?_ ’

“With all their usual tact, of course...” __


	2. Take Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finds out that life is not like a romantic comedy (except when it is.)

It was three weeks, six days and fifteen hours when he next saw Lestrade. Well, that was not strictly factual; he saw Lestrade nearly every day due to the man’s close relation to Sherlock, so it was _Lestrade_ that had not seen him for nearly a month. Mycroft’s nose had nearly healed by that point, but it now looked beakier than ever, a fact that caused him no small amount of private distress. He had spent that first night miserable, sulking and curled up in bed. He had half-expected Lestrade to run after the car like a scene out of a romantic comedy, clutching the notes and shouting his name. Life, it seemed, was not akin to a romantic comedy, especially not the sort produced by Hollywood. He blamed the CIA for giving him such a skewed view about relationships, and spent the month putting them through their paces.

He kept the towel. Out of spite, he reasoned, rather than any sense of sentiment. Then he wondered who he thought he was deluding. Having reflected on the afternoon – having been unable to do much more than that for the week it had taken his black eye to fade, as there was only so much one could do with make-up – he was appalled at how unseemly it had been, and how blatantly obvious _he_ had been. Despite his embarrassment that he had figuratively _and_ literally thrown himself at Lestrade, he resolved to put the incident behind him. 

… which was why he found himself sending a pound of fresh, high quality tea leaves to the man, as well as a new towel which was made from much finer material than the scratchy cotton one he’d kept, and several other, minor gifts. (A lovely green jumper made out of merino wool, because it had been an unpleasantly cold winter; that bag of Italian coffee he was never going to use, because he knew that Lestrade was on friendly terms with his ex-wife and _she_ drank coffee; a cashmere scarf to complement the jumper…) It was all to apologise, of course, and he thought it rather a meagre one, given they usually involved exorbitant amounts of money, job offers and priceless jewellery. Very rarely, a bullet to the head, but he didn’t think Lestrade had very many people he wanted dead, so that appeared to be out of the question.

Having thus concluded that their relationship had ended shortly after it had begun (three seconds, to be accurate) Mycroft did not anticipate that he would see Lestrade again. In person, at least. And especially not while Mycroft was waiting for John in the garish café just outside of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock was least likely to notice things right under his nose, which had been amusing throughout their childhood and raised his spirits considerably even today.

John would be late, he knew, as it was 7:30 in the morning and Sherlock’s flatmate tended to wake at 6, pad around uselessly for two hours, and go out to work after checking his mobile. This morning he would see Mycroft’s text, possibly swear, and make his way down. So he still had another half hour in this dreadful establishment, staring at this dreadful cup of tea and wondering why he bothered to purchase anything. He made regular payments to the owner, thus ensuring the café was devoid of anyone else this particular morning (and, of course, equipped to the nines with CCTV and listening devices.) A small mercy that did nothing to improve his humour, as he’d had thirty minutes sleep this morning, they were in the middle of what the media were beginning to dub the ‘Arab Spring’, North Korea was _still_ attempting to covertly assemble nuclear weapons, and the Americans were getting anxious about Al’Qaeda. Things were getting slightly out of hand. He did not even want to _think_ about the situation in Britain at the moment. It was more than mildly concerning, and Mycroft disliked being more than mildly concerned.

The door to the café jangled open with an intolerably cheery sound—he was going to have every café in England burnt down for crimes against humanity. Repulsive places. They made him want to take up the deleterious habit of smoking. He might, if John took any longer to extract himself from engaging in acts with Mycroft's baby brother that he did not want to think about for more than a fraction of a second.

"Mr Holmes?" He glanced up sharply from his cooling tea, and found himself looking at a soaked and stunned Lestrade. His first thought was, _doesn't he have an umbrella? He'll catch pneumonia,_ when it occurred to him that he should be panicking and hastily leaving. He was too bloody tired to be properly surprised, though, and gazed at the other man quietly for a few moments as Lestrade gave a shiver, shook his head like a wild dog, and came to hover over the empty seat adjacent to Mycroft. "Do you mind...?"

"Please," he said, wanting to scrub at his face but instead opting for rubbing at one eye. His nose was aching in phantom (and lingering) pain, which was one more straw on the camel's back. "What brings you here, Inspector?" He knew the reason, of course, but strained small talk was better than prolonged silences in his view. Usually. Perhaps that golden rule did not apply in this situation. 

"Same as what brings you here, I imagine. Won't answer their bloody door." Lestrade flashed him that crooked smile. He stared back expressionlessly. This was bringing back the unpleasant feelings from three weeks ago. He had suspected he had been drugged, to have acted so vacantly, but now it appeared that his earlier hypothesis had been correct, and proximity to Lestrade was detrimental to his ability to reason, and, consequently, to be anything resembling charming. He should hate the other man (or, at the very least, have him shot) but he seemed to be stripped of anything except mawkish emotions and thoughts about Lestrade’s shaving cream. "How's your, ah, nose going?"

"Fine."

Mycroft stared at the patterns in the wall, wondering how long it would take John to find the text and hoping he broke his trend and was earlier than normal. Lestrade picked at the tablecloth for a moment, and then began to speak, as if there had been no awkward silence.

"This is kind of good, actually, that you're here, 'cos I wanted to... well, see you again, and also kinda apologise for the complete cock up last month – oh! And also, cheers, for all the..." Lestrade waved a hand about, clearly trying to physically pluck a word from thin air, and settling on, "stuff. I, er, you didn't need to do that, but I appreciated it all the same, and I think I know what you were trying to say, and could we actually please forget that day and start again, maybe?"

Mycroft blinked, slowly, taking time to compile the facts and fit them into neat conclusions in his head, which boiled down to two: Lestrade was awful at expressing himself, and Lestrade was attempting to wipe the slate clean, meaning he had... accepted the apology, wanted to forget anything had ever happened, and go back to being Mycroft's informal informant. He supposed it was the better of several possible outcomes, he just could not summon up enough of a mask to pretend he was pleased, and continued to stare blandly at Lestrade, before glancing away, his eyes drawn back to his tea.

"Fantastic," he said simply, adjusting his spoon so it sat at exactly 90 degrees to the teacup. He would plough on, he supposed; boats against the tide, and all that. "On the subject of Sherlock—"

"Can't we talk about you?" Lestrade interrupted, and his head shot up for the second time in as many minutes.

"Me?" Why on earth...?

"Yeah. I want to... you know." No, he did _not_ know. "Get to know you better," Gregory finished, propping his chin on one hand.

Mycroft was actually stunned speechless for a minute, and thoughtless for several moments more. What had he missed? In the end, he was so astonished by Lestrade's request that he could only ask, in a very thin voice, " _Why?_ "

Gregory, on his part, was torn between looking amused and faintly baffled himself. "It's sort of what people who are interested in one another do?"

This was not answering any of his questions, and causing quite a few more to be formed. Most of them started with 'why', 'what', and 'how.' He did not ask them, however, doing a very good impression of a slack-jawed idiot instead.

"Are you... alright?"

"Yes, quite well," his voice was steady, good, time to deflect, "I'm not a very interesting person, I can assure you—"

"Oh, I doubt it," Lestrade replied, grinning (if somewhat unsurely,) "You're Sherlock's brother; you can't tell me at least some of it hasn't rubbed off. Or is this an, 'I'd tell you but I'd have to kill you,' thing?"

"You watch too many movies, Inspector. It's an, 'I would tell you but you would die of boredom,' thing." Seeing he was not undeterred so easily, Mycroft relented. Slightly. “Fine. What did you wish me to say? What would you say?”

And that, along with several affirmative noises and, “Oh, no, do go on,”s later, was how he got Gregory to talk about his life for a full half an hour. He was genuinely interested, and if it happened that it took pressure off him having to be charming and exciting for the moment, well, so much the better. It was going rather splendidly until John decided to finally make an appearance, five minutes later than his usual time but every bit as unwanted. Mycroft had been half hoping the man wouldn’t turn up, but even in the midst of joy, melancholy waited in her sovereign shrine, as the poets said.

John was blinking water out of his eyes, and looking very irritated. So, situation as normal. “You could’ve come up to the flat,” he muttered in what he presumably thought was an undertone. Fortunately (often _un_ fortunately throughout his childhood,) Mycroft had exceptional hearing. “But no, we have to do the cloak and dagger routine again…”

“Ah, John,” Mycroft said, voice coiling around his name with genteel ice. “Sit down.”

Gregory glanced between the pair of them, eyebrows raised in an expression Mycroft did not want to begin to interpret, greeted John warmly – who stared at Lestrade, then at him, mouth and eyes wide in almost comical surprise – and announced, “Right, I’ll be off upstairs.” He glanced at Mycroft and said, “See you… around.” That little grin was he given still made his insides feel as if they were trying to tie themselves in knots. It also made him feel distressingly happy—cheerful— _content_. After all, it was only a smile; nothing to write sappy love poetry over, or feel any excessive emotions towards. (Nor was there reason to quirk a small smile back, but he found himself doing so regardless. A bizarre reaction. He did not smile, unless he wanted the other person to feel severe discomfort.) 

John still had that ludicrous look on his face, one that made Mycroft want to throw the cup of tea at him. He desisted in doing so, as, however vexing and ill timed the man was, John was a reliable link to Sherlock. He was quite surprised they did not walk around permanently joined at the hip, actually. It seemed like an experiment his brother would try to perform, and probably succeed at.

The man was staring at Mycroft without the hard, annoyed light in his eyes he normally bore. However welcome this lack of hostility was, it could not be tolerated, as it was due to John’s misapprehension that he now had a weakness in the DI. (They would have to talk about this, he supposed. Mutual communication was important in relationships, he had read. He would have to practice; usually he only gave into demands after setting a team of assassins on the person had failed.) “So you and, uh, Lestrade, then?” was the first thing John said after he sat down.

“Is not a subject up for discussion,” Mycroft finished, smile turning cool. John’s mouth thinned.

“Right,” he said, equally as coldly. Mycroft was almost impressed. “So, we’ll talk about Sherlock, who’ll be more than a little cheesed off that you’re getting it off with Lestrade.”

Threats already. How very common. His smile widened. “Cup of tea, John?”

“Cheers,” he said, teeth gritted.

Their conversation continued in this charmingly civil way for the proscribed thirty minutes he could spare (read: bear to be in John’s company) out of his busy schedule. “Well, this has been most informative,” he remarked, still bearing the same shark-like smile. His cheeks were beginning to ache, actually, as well as his nose. “I’ll pencil you in for next month.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Standard response. He was unsure he had ever felt so much annoyance towards another human being that he had not been able to extradite to Siberia. “Look,” John started, as Mycroft rose from his seat. He paused. This was new. Unexpected. He loathed the unexpected. “I won’t tell Sherlock about Greg and uh… you. The both of you. Being, uh, well, meeting and doing… stuff. Together.”

“Of course you will not,” he replied, “because there is nothing _to tell_.” And if he _did_ happen to slip that little bit of information to Sherlock, Mycroft would see him deported to Siberia before he could _blink_.

“Right. Great. Glad we understand each other.” He thought he detected the tiniest hint of sarcasm. Surely not from such a fine and upstanding citizen as Dr Watson. Thankfully, after shaking the man’s hand, he was able to exit without being forced to exchange another word, leaving John to finish his tea. And pay the bill.

He stood in the rain, sheltered by his umbrella, tapping John’s cheap leather wallet (which he had… appropriated from the man’s pocket), and peering thoughtfully out into Baker Street. The car was parked up a little way away, but… It was not long before another person stepped into the rain, and proceeded to swear vividly and imaginatively at the sky. The curses appeared to be half in English, half in French and involve several exotic fruits, a grater and a sheep. He decided that it might be detrimental to his goal of roman—forming a holistic relationship with Lestrade for the man to die of pneumonia, and walked up to offer his umbrella.

“Good morning again, Inspector,” he said smoothly, surreptitiously sliding John’s wallet through the mail slot of 221. He’d find it there eventually. Probably. Now all that was to be done was ask Gregory out on a mutually beneficial meeting… _date_ , without his heart defying the laws of anatomy and attempting to lodge itself into his throat.

Gregory grinned. He seemed to do an awful lot of it. Normally he would be put off, but this was… different. Terrifyingly so. “God, sorry, d’you hear that? Hate getting wet. Keep falling into the bleeding river, though, eh, going after Sherlock.” At his inquisitive noise, Lestrade nodded and tugged him to walk over to his car, talking all the while: “Sod jumped in one time, in the middle of winter, no less. Wanted to test how long it’d take ‘till his extremities would freeze or some daft thing like that. Still, proper genius, I suppose, even if he is a bit… Solved this thing I had going for the past month or so in about five minutes flat. Naturally, he then spent the _rest_ of my time telling me how much of an idiot I was, but that’s just sort of par for the course.”

“That does sound like him,” he said quietly. Gregory, who had been staring out into the rain with more than a little distaste, turned back to him.

“Reckon you owe me a dinner date, though,” Lestrade said seriously.

“Do I?” 

“Oh, yeah. Gotta teach me how you dodged all those personal questions so easy. It’d be right useful for press conferences and the like.” Useful. He nodded. He could be useful. It was a start, at least; a step up from being undesirable. Lestrade rolled his eyes suddenly and, to Mycroft’s intense surprise, elbowed him in the ribs. “Come off it, you silly bugger, I was kidding. You don’t owe me anything. I’d _like_ it if you came to dinner with me, or, er… don’t suppose you do the pictures? No, sorry, bit of a stupid question.” The DI paused, considering. Mycroft was still trying to work out what he meant by ‘pictures’ and, if he was referring to photography, why he had put a definitive article before the noun. He was baffled, and he was _never_ (well, rarely) baffled. If he connected it with the previous part of the sentence, it appeared that Lestrade was asking him on… a… date.

 _Don’t blurt out yes, do_ not _blurt out yes, this is not a thing that you are going to do, he has merely broached the possibility of a—_

“So do you want to go out—"

“Yes!” _Shit._

“… for dinner, or just going out is fine, too,” Gregory finished, looking amused.

“Dinner.”

“Great.” The bureaucrat tested the word for sarcasm and, finding none, was bewildered. “So, I’ll rock up to Buckingham Palace at about seven…” At Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, Lestrade grinned, opening the door to his car. “Kidding. Pick me up at seven, yeah?” The man tilted his head, appearing to mull something over, and he wondered if he wasn't reconsidering their date, wouldn't that just be his luck, and why was Lestrade leaning in—

Gregory's breath was sweet and warm curled around his lips, and somehow suddenly, abruptly, dear Lord, he was actually being kissed. Kissed until his free hand stopped flailing about uselessly and came to stroke hesitantly down the front of Lestrade's shirt; kissed until his senses were in agony at the sudden influx of information. _Cool, soft, chapped, teeth, pleasure-pain, nose hurting, tongue tracing at his bottom lip hands clutching jacket too much too much can't do this no stop_

Lestrade broke it off before Mycroft could embarrass himself by falling over backwards. The policeman slanted an easy smile at the stunned look on Mycroft's face, eyes drifting down to his tingling bottom lip and back up again to meet his gaze.

"See you tonight." There was no misconstruing the rich, lovely promise held in those words. Before he could even remember how to speak English, Lestrade had disappeared inside the car and taken off, leaving a pole-axed Mycroft standing on the footpath, his umbrella drooping and the rain falling on him. For once, he was heedless of the possibility of catching his death, and continued to stand there until his black car slid neatly into the place Lestrade's had previously been parked. He nearly fell in, but gathered himself enough to enter the car with dignity. Then he slumped into the seat.

"Have a good morning, sir?" his assistant enquired, sans Blackberry and sounding suspiciously mild.

He was still thinking in French, and had to stop himself from spouting out maudlin love poetry. "Yes. Quite... quite good." 

"Your brother sent me several texts."

"Did he."

"Yes, sir. Most of them were some derivative of, 'deleted,' and others were unintelligible, but I received the impression that he had seen your impromptu performance, if I may call it that." 

"Hmmm," he replied, somewhat vaguely. Kissing in the rain; it was like something out of Mills and Boon, and therefore completely and ridiculously fantastic. He wondered if Lestrade would be amenable to recreating _other_ scenes found in those novels...

"Did you wish for me to do anything, sir?" she asked politely, withdrawing her smart-phone from a pocket. It was still vibrating occasionally, with what he presumed were horrified texts from Sherlock. He smiled; Sherlock could go hang. His assistant had the grace to not look totally perturbed at the little grin that was playing on his face, and merely said: "I'll deploy a car to pick Mr Lestrade up at the appointed time, sir: is that alright?"

"Absolutely," Mycroft said, drawing out the word with relish. In his mind, he found the list of ' _why it was a very, very bad idea to continue on this path with Lestrade_ ' and, in a rare display, deleted it. Now he had compiled more data, he found his conclusions to be false, and he would be much improved by drawing up another list. Of course, extensive research would need to be done to substantiate the claims, but with a confirmed dinner and all that was entailed, he was positive he would be ready for the slings, arrows and profane texts of life...

Just so long as he never had to set foot in a café again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the inestimable GrytpypeThynne, who told me to stop bitching about this and finish it, so I did. (After bitching about it some more, of course.)


End file.
